


The Day Was At A Close

by Azorathoth



Series: If I Cut Off This Limb Will I Be Healed? [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Emo and Angsty, End of the World, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Ghosts, Necromancy, Witchcraft, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azorathoth/pseuds/Azorathoth
Summary: Philip Kellerman is a 20 year old florist living with his grandmother. For years he has been haunted by a looming fate, as well as a looming ancestral spirit waiting to take his soul. He tries to cope, but in the end, he has to face down something he cannot run away from.





	1. Chapter 1

Philip is keenly aware of his 21st birthday’s creeping approach. He looks upon the calendar and despairs. There are colorful balloon stickers surrounding the date, stuck there by his grandmother to cheer him up while he stares pensively at the passing days, like he had for the past month. What should have been a happy time of year was something he had dreaded for 11 years.

There was only one week until his family curse was to be fulfilled, with his soul being the sacrifice. The recipient, an ancestor named Mahora, was not one to slack on reminding Philip of her intentions. The ghostly and thin woman with dark skin and a hard jawline haunted his thoughts. “You’re going to succumb to me,” She says with a positively giddy voice. “And I will lead you to world domination.”

She would always tease the young necromancer with warped versions of his own vision of a perfect world. Philip wanted to help his fellow man with the powers he possessed, but he knew Mahora’s motives by now. She wanted to rule with an iron fist, but he wanted nothing but to better mankind. The thought of what he wants vacates his mind quickly. He had given up trying to resist years ago. He slumps on the kitchen counter, his grandmother Victoria patting his arm knowingly.

Victoria was a loving woman, sweet and cheery in all things. Her little pink house sat on the corner of a Virginian street corner, white privacy fencing standing tall around the backyard. She understood him. In his self-pity, Philip doesn’t notice Victoria’s shaking hands.

 

There were six days left and Philip was having trouble focusing on the bouquets he was meant to arrange. His work was important to him - his grandmother’s shop was important to him! Yet here he stood, in a red haze, one fleshy hand fondling the petals in front of him and yellowing phalanges gripping the edge of the counter. What was meant to be a loving bouquet of _tulips, forget-me-nots, and gloxinia_ for a young, love-struck couple ended up being a mangled mess of _begonia, pine, and marigold_. Perhaps sensitive wasn’t the right word for it, but Philip knew that his mood had tainted his design. His real feelings for this world and how it wronged him bubbled to the surface, his brow furrowing, maw locking shut, hands and arms flexing as he makes a sudden and rash decision; his skeletal hand knocks over the vase he was working in, the sound of shattering glass was sharp in his ear. He felt like a toddler. It didn’t take long before he was sweeping up what he had broken, stuffing extra money in the register to pay for it, and starting over.

 

With five days left, Philip wanted to cling to some hope. He didn’t do this often.

“Mahora?” He practically whispered, part of him hoping that the spirit wouldn’t respond. As her spidery fingers pulled her, her robes, and her massive mane of hair through the wall and into the room, his breath hitched. What was he going to say to her? That he wasn’t ready? Maybe if he begged nicely, he’d get that time that he wanted. Time with his grandmother, time with his girlfriend, time that he was letting slip away.

He simply looks at Mahora’s gaunt face adorned with golden jewelry. She was a beautiful woman with severe features much like Philip’s own. Where she was tall and wiry, most of her bulk coming from layers of robing and the sheer volume of her hair, Philip was a young man laid bare. He never wore shoes and the flimsy pink tank top he wore contrasted against the black of his hair, the severity of his undercut, the necklace made of snake spine and a flimsy pentagram charm.

He thought that he could negotiate with someone like her? Even at his height, she loomed over him. He felt himself shrinking back as they simply looked at each other.

Mahora read Philip’s pallid face easily, laughing boisterously. She liked to let him know how she savored his suffering in person. “Young Philip, I know this transition is hard, but these time-wasting outbursts aren’t making it any easier.”

 

Victoria had fainted at work.

She had fallen down the stairs going down to storage.

It was Philip who called 911, riding in the ambulance next to the woman who had raised him so diligently.

Part of him regretted going to the hospital. Facing so much loss in so little time couldn’t have been good for his colon - a bitter thought as nurses gave him pitying looks, whispered condolences and muffled reassurances. He wished he could stand in his grandmother’s garden to honor her instead of in a courtyard surrounded by white light and the smell of sterilization. Pure melodrama was on his mind.

In the wings was Minerva, gorgeous as she was with her mane of red hair. She still had stickers in her hair from the kids at work. The purple of her blazer glows under fluorescent light. She’s soon taking his face in her hands.

He doesn’t stop himself from crying.

 

Philip laid in bed next to Minerva, three days left. He traces freckles on her chest. “I should have told you when we first met,” he starts.

Her mussed hair twitches like fire, her eyes glowing with something unknown. There’s a rumble that passes through the room, like the low humming of a machine. It was weighty, a presence that followed the impassioned witch. It felt something like comfort, like being wrapped in a firm hug.

“I wish you’d told me sooner.” Is all she supplies. So he draws her close and lets her rest there while all of their dreams of a life together died. Soon, however, against all odds, she nudges him to tell him in her sweet voice, “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, we’ll look through some of my books. We’ll think of something. We’ll never give up on you.”

 

When Philip awoke, it was his second to last day.

Minerva was gone.

He called her phone and no one answered.

He was utterly alone.

 

The day was at a close.

Midnight had struck and Mahora was there.

Philip was always a bright child. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, so when his own end came he was in his grandmother’s garden. He’s surrounded by tiny flowers, a spelling of doom and fate and the beginning of something new.

Yes, the beginning of something new. Perhaps he can hope that is what his death will be? Will it be the start of something beautiful, clumsy and new? Will he be something fleeting and awe-inspiring? It would be something he could tolerate for eternity if he could never reach his dream. 

“I have waited so long for this, my boy.” She rumbles in her rib cage. It rattles with something hollow.

He had spent the past week mourning his eventual death and now that it was here, he wondered if he made the right choice in doing so. it didn’t quite feel like the right course of action. Had he wasted time? Would he feel just as regretful if he had done something different? There wasn’t a point to thinking about it now, but was there ever a reason to think about anything?

“Will it hurt?” It was a practical question.

She places her claw on his shoulder like Victoria used to. It was heavy. “Inevitably.”

The fingers of her free hand drill into his chest, past the contours of his ribcage. The hand around his heart was strangling. It was a strange, dull feeling. She squeezes tightly and oh so slowly pulls herself in, face first. And she disappears into his thin chest, weightless.

He doesn’t feel any differently, and he touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his chest.

He touches his FUCKING CHEST.

No matter how hard he tries, Philip’s hand doesn’t rise, but instead, he is like a passenger. He looks through someone's eyes, like being trained on a television show. He starts moving, but it’s not him doing it. He feels weightless, and the sheer anxiety makes it feel so much less real. Where his fingertips rested was the buzzing chill of panic.

He watches himself walk out of his grandmother’s garden, into her home. His body delicately rifles through the cabinets, eats their food, lounges on the granite countertop. He stares at the clock, waiting as fruit is passed from his plate to his mouth.

An hour passes, and the door slams open. There in the doorway stands Minerva, panting and staring at him, but it’s not him she’s staring at. Her hair is wilder than usual but just as red as it’s ever been. Her blazer is missing, and there are rope burns on her exposed wrists, raw and screaming. There’s a wild look in her eye, her pupils were blown wide as she bears down upon him. She’d been captured by someone, and judging by the bloodied glass shard in her hand, she’d fought hard to escape.

Her gaze softens when she sees him, but her eyebrows quirk in confusion.

On Philip’s face was the most soulless and twisted smile, curling up his cheeks like the coils of a vine, strangling the last bits of hope that she could ever help her love.

“I understand, but you were too late.”

It’s his voice speaking, foreign to his ears.

“You had convinced yourself of a lie,” He continues. “It was useless, but do not worry. You will have a use in my new world.”

The house rumbles suddenly, lightning brightening up the 3 a.m. sky. A sudden storm begins and a torrent of red fills the heavens. That wry smile hasn’t left the impostor’s face. He had only been waiting for Minerva to serve as his witness. Witness she did, as hordes of undead sprout from the ground like daisies, clawing at the dirt as they unsheathe their bodies from the earth. Monsters of true horror follow, hell creatures drawn out by the massive amount of magic being called. With each surge, the world seems to pulse, like the evils summoned breathed in sync.

No home would be unpillaged and no land would go unconquered, for he was now the archlich.


	2. Obituaries

Philip Kellerman

1998-2018 (?)

 

Philip Kellerman was a 20-year-old young man from Virginia, USA. From a young age, he was interested in the dark arts. He pursued an education in necromancy and was in the middle of a rest year at the time of his passing.

Philip’s mother and father preceded him in death 20 years earlier in a break-in gone wrong and he was raised by his Grandmother, Victoria Martz-Kellerman.

He was relatively well liked as a child by his peers and as the only necromancer in his class often wooed his teachers with very unique magicks, even replacing his missing hand with a skeletal enchantment.

Philip met his girlfriend, Minerva Dewitt, in his elective demonology class at Virginia Magical Technical Institute. They had been inseparable ever since.

Philip worked doing the things he loved most: gardening and spreading wellness. Anyone who spoke to Philip knew of his aspirations to rule the world, to make a utopia where everyone could live happier lives and do only what they love.

He now rests in the depths of his consciousness as the Archlich Kel’Mar, a title he claimed by surrendering to his family curse.

Philip was 6’6” tall, 180 pounds, rarely wore shoes, loved sunhats and could always be found in the garden and with his necronomicon. He and the world that went with him will be missed.

 

Victoria Martz-Kellerman

1946-2018

Victoria Martz-Kellerman, born Victoria Martz was the daughter of a very standard upbringing, with loving parents and a safe environment. Imagine her parent surprise when she brings home a magical young man specializing in blood magic.

She is preceded in death by her husband Romulus Kellerman and her son Daniel Kellerman.

Victoria and Romulus Kellerman marry in 1967. They have a daughter and a son, Annabel Kellerman and the late Daniel Kellerman.

Daniel Kellerman goes on to marry Eliza Firth and they have one son before their passing: Philip Kellerman.

Victoria was a woman of passion and vigor. She was the height of empathy to all that knew her. She loved her garden and her home and every aspect of what she had built for herself. Even when times were tough, she approached the world with love. She had a master’s green thumb and could warm the coldest heart.

She loved her magical family, even when their interests strayed dark, but her passions lied in a magic of her own: flowers. She opened her flower shop in her youth, smitten by the pure romance each petal held.

Victoria and the light she took with her will be missed.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the beginning of a series i'm starting! i find it fitting to start with a death. but this won't be the last we see of philip, victoria, minerva, her friend, or mahora.
> 
> find me on deviantart and tumblr. azorathoth.deviantart.com // azorathoth.tumblr.com


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